Covenant
by reciprocityfic
Summary: Rebirth starts with a promise; Rick and Michonne comfort each other after Negan tears apart the lives they knew. Major spoilers for 7x01.
1. Chapter 1

"What happened?"

She walks into the empty bedroom at Hilltop, him pressed into her side. She closes and locks the door behind them, and then half-carries him to the large bed in the middle of the room, her arm around his waist, his hanging across her shoulders. When they reach the bed, she gently sits him up on the mattress. As soon as she lets him go, he lurches forward, and for a second she thinks he's going to fall over onto the floor, until he places his hands on his thighs, catching himself. She sees his back move up and down as he takes two deep breaths.

"Where's Carl?" he rasps.

"With Aaron," she reminds him gently, settling on the bed next to him, close enough that their legs touch. "He said he wasn't going to be able to sleep. That he wanted to do something. So Aaron told him to come keep watch with him. It was just downstairs, before we came up. Don't you remember?"

He exhales, his head still hanging. After a moment, he nods, almost imperceptibly.

She bites down on her lower lip, and then brings her hand to rest on his thigh, her fingertips just grazing his, her thumb smoothing the dirty denim of his jeans.

"What happened?" she repeats.

He doesn't answer her. She notices that his whole body is shaking slightly, and she moves her hand on his leg to cover his more, but he flinches at her touch. She freezes, drops her hand, tries not to let it hurt her. She knows he doesn't mean it like that.

She closes her eyes and turns away from him. When she opens them, she's greeted with a blurred picture of the sun just starting to peek out from behind the horizon, her unshed tears clouding her sight as she looks out the window.

"What did he do to you?"

The words are barely more than a whisper, but she knows he can hear them in the still room. But again, he offers her no explanation. Instead, all she hears are his unsteady breaths, him heaving and exhaling in irregular patterns – the sound of him crying. Her lips quiver before she slides off the mattress and onto her knees in front of him.

She reaches up slowly, placing her hands on his cheeks, ignoring the way he flinches again. She keeps her grip on him, lifting his head until she can see his face, watches his tears fall from behind closed eyelids. And it is this sight that finally makes her own spill over.

"Rick," she nearly whimpers.

He takes another deep breath before dragging his eyes open, both of them red, puffy, and bloodshot. The pain on his face takes root inside her, cuts open her heart and burns as it flows through her veins.

"Rick," she breathes, her voice breaking, water flowing down her cheeks freely. " _What did he do to you?_ "

He squeezes his eyes shut for just a moment before opening them again, shaking his head back and forth, a half-strangled sob surfacing from deep inside his chest.

She's never seen him like this; she's seen him bleed, she's seen him cry, she's watched him get dragged through hell and back. But she's never seen this. She's never seen him come out looking like this.

She's never seen him completely and utterly _broken_ before.

And she swears to herself, right then and there, that she will kill Negan. That she _will not die_ before she gets to stand over that man and watch his life leave his body.

She leans up slightly, bringing her face to his, running her nose up his and to his forehead before stopping and inhaling him twice. She feels his feather-light touch run down her sides until his hands land on her hips. She turns her head slightly, letting her lips pass over his skin before beginning to stand up and pull away. His grip on her hips tightens in protest.

"I'll be right back," she assures him softly, stepping into him, letting her fingers fall into his hair. "I promise."

She waits until she feels him nod into her stomach before she extricates herself from him, walking into the bathroom adjacent to their room, digging through cabinets and drawers until she finds towels, washcloths, soap, shampoo, and a first aid kit. After placing the items on the sink, she reenters the bedroom. Rick sits unmoved on the bed, having returned to his original, slumped-over position. She walks over to him again. He looks at her unprompted now, and it seems like his tears have slowed the tiniest bit. She stands in front him, gazing into his eyes for just a moment before crouching down, taking his foot, and beginning to pull off his boot.

"You don't have to –"

"Yes I do," she tells him, peeling off his sock and already starting on the second boot. "I do have to. And even if I didn't, I'd still want to."

He doesn't protest anymore, and after she's done with his feet, she stands up, settling herself down on his lap, straddling him. She unzips his jacket and pushes it off his shoulders, and then reaches down and pulls his t-shirt over his head. She pushes him back onto the bed, and shimmies off of him to undo his belt and unbutton his jeans, lifting his ass and pulling his pants and his underwear off in one swoop.

He keeps laying and simply watches her as she stands and quickly undresses in front of him. She uses her headband to tie her hair on top of her head, and then reaches out to him, offering her hand. He takes it, and she pulls him up off the bed, leads him into the bathroom. She takes one of the towels and shakes it out, laying it on the floor like a blanket. She instructs him to sit, and he does, back against the tub, legs stretched out in front of him. She takes a washcloth and wets it with hot water. Then she grabs the first aid kit and sits down by his legs, facing him, pulling her knees up to her chest. She stares at him, and he gazes back at her. He doesn't speak, and his shoulders still slump, but at least he looks at her. His eyes glisten with tears, and she tries desperately to take some comfort in the fact that they've seemed to stop falling for the moment.

She reaches out, touches the washcloth to his face, and begins to wipe at the blood on his cheeks.

"Were you bit?" she asks, her heart pounding in her chest.

"No," he murmurs, dropping his gaze to the floor.

"Were you scratched?"

He shakes his head, bringing his hand into his lap to pick at some imaginary mark on his leg. She lets herself exhale just the tiniest bit.

They sit in silence, her cleaning his skin, him still fiddling with his fingers. Once she's wiped the majority of the blood off, she goes to put the rag to the side, but he stops her – reaching out, grabbing her forearm, and opening her hand, taking the cloth from her.

Her eyes question him, and he shrugs.

"You, too."

She hesitates for a moment, and then brings her hand up to her cheek, feeling the dried blood splattered over the left side of her face under her fingertips. She's almost surprised. In all the chaos, drowning in her worry over him and Carl and the rest of her family, she'd forgotten herself.

He hadn't. Despite everything, he hadn't forgotten her.

He leans towards her, takes her hand and places it back in her lap before pressing the terry against her skin. The water is only lukewarm now, and she shivers.

He rubs the washcloth harder against her face, as if he's not only trying to remove the blood, but also the memory of Negan smashing in the skull of their friend with his bat again and again. Trying to wash away the picture of Abraham – loud, boisterous, sometimes obnoxious, sometimes a dick, but their _friend_ , nonetheless – cracking open, his brain spilling out onto the forest floor.

Trying to erase the memory of _Glenn_ …

He's not succeeding, but she doesn't tell him, instead letting the fabric make her skin sore. She closes her eyes as the scene replays in her head, and her eyes fill again. She flicks her eyelids open, sees him focus on his task, but with two fresh tear streaks marring his cheeks.

He finishes, cleaning her to the best of his ability, before sighing and handing the washcloth back to her. She takes it and throws it into the basin of the sink.

She opens the first aid kit and grabs a cotton pad, opening the small bottle of hydrogen peroxide and pouring some onto the pad.

"Thank you," she tells him.

"I had to," he breathes, echoing her words to him. "And even if I didn't, I'd want to."

She smiles sadly.

He winces when she first presses the cotton to the marks on his face, and she scoots forward, setting her free hand on his thigh, whispering a soft apology. He shakes his head, and she thinks he tries to turn his lips up into a small smile, but all that manages to pass across his face is a pained grimace.

After she's done cleaning his wounds, she throws the cotton pad in the trashcan, and closes the first aid kit, reaching up to place it back on the sink. She rests her head on her knees, staring at the hand she's placed on his leg, rubbing gentle circles into his skin. They sit in silence for a few minutes, and she just listens to him breathing, air still passing shakily through his nostrils and into his lungs. Finally, she speaks.

"I had a son."

She shifts her gaze in time to see his head snap up with a jerk, his eyes wide as her stares at her. She sees him start to open his mouth, but she shakes her head, continuing before he can say anything.

"I'm not telling you this so you can feel sorry for me. I'm not trying to say that what happened to me was worse than what you've – what we've – just gone through. I..."

She inhales and exhales slowly, steeling herself.

"I've wanted to tell you for a while, I just didn't know how. Didn't know how to casually bring up my dead kid. We were just so _happy_."

Her voice breaks, and she can feel her tears well up again behind her eyes, as she thinks back. Back even to the morning, as she lied beside him in bed, his arm wrapped around her waist, holding her against him. His lips on her bare skin, dropping soft kisses on her shoulder, her breast, down her body.

She struggles to reconcile herself with the idea that those moments occurred less than twenty-four hours ago. It seems like another lifetime. And she supposes that it is, in a way. Things had changed, permanently.

Their lives would never be the same.

"I don't want you to feel sorry for me. I just need you to listen."

She glances up at him again, and he nods, placing his hand over hers on his leg.

"His name was Andre," she tells him, adverting her eyes, staring at the white porcelain of the tub in front of her. The corners of her mouth involuntarily turn up as she feels his name roll off her tongue.

"Andre Anthony. His father's name was Mike. We'd been together for six years. We lived in a condo in Atlanta. I was a lawyer, but I took a break after Andre was born. I worked at this neat, little art gallery right in the middle of the cultural district downtown a few days a week. Mike was teaching at one of the local colleges, and working on getting his doctorate in rhetoric."

She feels a pang in her heart as she thinks back on her family, on the loved ones that she'd lost, the life that had been ripped from her.

"I had everything I ever wanted," she whispers wistfully. "Everything I hadn't even thought to wish for. I had it. All of it."

She laughs once.

"I guess it makes sense, in a way. How everything fell apart. Nothing that perfect can last forever."

His grip on her hand tightens. She turns up her palm, and laces their fingers together.

"Andre was three when everything happened," she continues. "We went to a refugee camp just outside the city when it started to get bad with Mike's best friend, Terry. Everything was okay for awhile. Until it wasn't."

She looks up at him briefly, sees that she still has all of his attention, his blue eyes fierce, still watery, boring into her.

"We started to run out of supplies. And first it was just little things, like soap. And then it was bigger things. And then it was food. And once you run out of food, everything goes to shit.

"And on top of that, the four of us weren't in the best of shape. Mike and Terry – they weren't built for this world. I could see that they were already starting to give up. And I knew that if I wanted to save them, if I wanted to keep them alive – if I wanted to keep _my son_ alive – I had to start being proactive. I had to start _doing_ things."

She pauses, unfolds one of her legs and stretches it out against his.

"A group was going out on a run," she whispers, "and I decided to go with them. The camp didn't really have any centralized system set up, so I knew that if I wanted anything significant for us, I had to go and find it myself. I told Mike and Terry to watch Andre. We were only gone for a few hours. Three, I think. And when I got back…"

She trails off, biting her lip, squeezing her eyes shut at the burning across her chest in response to the memory, a slow-moving fire pushing against her ribs. She hears him shift, and soon his arms encircle her as he pulls her towards him, against him, laying his ear over hear heart. She folds her hands around his head, threading her fingers through the curls near the nape of his neck.

"It was overrun. There were so many of them, just wandering aimlessly around, through the rows of tents. I don't know where they came from, or how we didn't see them when we left. There were so many."

His hands stroke her back, slowly moving up and down her muscles.

"I ran. Without thinking about it. I ran and I ran and when I got to our tent, Terry was sitting in the corner with his head in his hands and Mike was holding Andre. I took him out of his arms, and his little body was so limp, and he was barely breathing, and he was so warm already, and I looked at his arm and…"

Her tears fall steadily, plopping into his hair. He burrows himself further into her.

"The tent reeked of weed," she scoffs, sucking in shallow breaths. "They were high, Rick. Instead of taking care of Andre – instead of protecting my _perfect little baby boy_ – the smoked and got high.

"I just held him and held him. And I talked to him and told him that I was there, that Mommy was there, and everything was going to be okay. And he reached up and wrapped his little fingers around a piece of my hair, and I just held him. I held him until he stopped breathing. His hand let go of my hair and he was…gone. My son. The boy I'd held every day for three years. This little life that I'd grown inside me. He was just _gone_."

She pauses, stares off, sees nothing.

"And then I put my sword through his head," she murmurs evenly.

Rick squeezes her so fiercely that for a moment she can't breathe. Then he loosens his grip, pulls back to look her in the eyes, lifts his hand up to gently cup her face. His eyes are puffy and red again, just as much as they'd been before she brought him into the bathroom. Whether he was crying for what Negan had done to their family or for her and Andre, she didn't know. He was probably crying for both.

"I should have killed him before he turned," she tells him, closing her eyes, ashamed of herself. "I shouldn't have let him become one of them. I should have killed him as soon as I got back. As soon as I found the three of them. But I – "

Her voice cuts off abruptly as a sob wracks her body.

He coos, "Sweetheart," his voice breaking.

She opens her eyes, finds him shaking his head back and forth slowly and deliberately.

"I couldn't do it," she cries. His thumb wipes her cheek, trying to dry some of her rapidly falling tears.

"Not while he was alive. Not while he was still breathing. I couldn't."

She brings her hand up to his on her cheek, wraps her fingers around it so tightly. If it hurts him, he doesn't complain.

She sniffles, takes a breath, and tries to make the water seeping from her eyes ebb.

"Those walkers Merle told you about just after we met? The ones I had with me, with no jaws and no arms?"

"Yeah?" he answers.

"They were Mike and Terry. I let them turn, then made it so they couldn't hurt me. And at first, when I was towing them around, I didn't even know that they protected me from the walkers. I told myself that I was punishing them, not letting them go. Parading them around on some twisted walk of shame. But I think…I think it was more for me. I was punishing myself. I wanted to remind myself every moment of every day that I had failed. That I killed Andre. That I failed all three of them."

 _"Sweetheart."_

She brings her free hand up and presses her fingers to his lips gently.

"Just listen. I'm almost done, I promise."

She sighs, looking down at the tile floor.

"I wasn't me," she begins. "After they died, all those months I was alone – I was gone. I might as well've been dead too. I was moving. I was breathing. But I wasn't alive. I had nobody. I didn't feel anything. I was just going through the motions: killing walkers, looking for food, trying to stay hidden from everyone. I didn't want to. I didn't even know why I was."

She hesitates, decides to divert from her point a bit.

"I know why I was now. Why I was fighting. Why I felt the need to keep going."

She drags her eyes up to look at him, liquid threatening to spill from her eyes again, but this time from a reason other than sadness.

"I was supposed to find you all. I was supposed to find Andrea, and she was supposed to start to help me heal. She was supposed to lead me to the prison – to your group. I was supposed to find a new family. I was supposed to meet Judith and Carl, and take care of them and love them."

She moves her hand from his lips and reaches behind his head, tangling her fingers in his hair again.

"I was meant to find you. I was meant to fall in love with you."

She hears him inhale sharply. And she can't help herself. She crawls into his lap, wraps herself around him. She feels his lips press on the top of her head.

"And I am. I'm in love with you. I'm so in love with you, and I was afraid I was never going to get to tell you. When they took me and Glenn."

She pauses, has to suck in a breath at the mention of his name.

"I was afraid that I was going to never see you again. And you would never hear me say it. And then, when he lined us all up, I was so scared it was going to be you or Carl. I was praying that it would be me, that he would pick _me_. Just so it wouldn't be one of you.

"And then when he picked Abe, I was _relieved_ for a second. And the second time, I was relieved again, just the tiniest bit. And I hate that I felt that. I _hate_ it, and I feel so selfish. I hate to admit there was a hierarchy of who I wanted to die. But there was. I couldn't help it. Even after you two, there were people that would've hurt more than others.

"And then, when he _took you_."

She begins to shake as the memories race through her head.

"I was so scared. I wanted to scream, I was so scared. I hadn't told you I loved you. _I just got you_. And I hated the fact that I hadn't done anything. I felt sick. That he had just taken you, and told us you might not come back. And I didn't do anything. I didn't even try. I just kept kneeling there, and let him _take you_."

She feels his lips against her hair again.

"He would've killed you if you had," he says bluntly.

"I would've been dead anyway," she murmurs into the crook of his neck. "If he hadn't brought you back, I would've died, just like I did after Andre. And I wouldn't have come back this time. There would've been no reason to. There's no one after you. No one."

She punctuates her words with a kiss to his collarbone.

"But you didn't die. Carl didn't die. I didn't die."

She stops speaking for a few long moments, turning her head and resting her ear over his heart, listening to it beat.

"Losing Andre, that was the worst pain I've ever felt. It was even worse than the pain I feel now, if you can believe it. There's nothing worse than losing your child. Nothing worse than having your baby die in your arms. Nothing even come close."

She pulls her head away from his body, grabs his chin with three of her fingers and tilts it down towards.

"You brought me back from that. You and Carl. You brought me back from nothing. You, and how I feel for you. You reminded me of all the good things that exist in the world. You showed me that they were still there, and that I could have them again. You, and your love for me, and mine for you. It showed me that we got to start over. That we got to try again. That we get to _come back_ ," she declares fervently, echoing the words he spoke to The Governor on that fateful day at the prison.

She sits up, turning and straddling his legs, holding his face in her hands.

"You didn't let me disappear. And I _promise_ you that I won't let you disappear, either. It's going to be so easy to allow yourself to slip, to drown in the pain. But I'm not going to let you. I'm not going to let you go, whether you want me to in the moment or not. I love you too much. And I'm not going to let you go away. I'm not going to let you die like I did. I swear to you, on my life. I'm not going to let you get lost."

She pauses as she watches a solitary tear fall down his cheek. She presses her thumb to it, stops its descent.

"You just don't let me get lost either, okay?"

He turns his head to press his lips against her palm.

"Never," he whispers solemnly.

"Thank you. I love you," she tells him again. He closes his eyes as she scratches the stubble covering his jaw. She stands up and grabs the soap and shampoo.

"Now let's get a shower, so we can rest a little before we go home and see Judy."

"I want to go now," he mutters towards the ground.

"Me too," she admits. "But we'll never make it home like this. We need to rest."

She places the items the items on the side of the tub and then turns the water on, adjusting it until it's just cool enough for her to handle it. Usually she would make the water lukewarm, but she didn't care right now. They deserved a hot shower.

"I don't know if I can," he tells her sheepishly as she reaches out to him.

"I'll help you."

He stares at her open hand for a few seconds before grabbing it. She pulls him up, and he wobbles a bit as his feet touch the ground. She puts her hands on his torso to steady him.

"I told you."

"Don't worry," she assures him. "I've got you."

"Yeah. You've always got me."

"You're damn right I do."

She thinks she sees the corner of his mouth turn up at that, but it falls so quickly that she can't tell if she imagined it or not.

She steps into the tub first, and then guides him in with her. He pulls the curtain closed behind him. His eyes close as the water beats against his body, and she reaches up to push the hair out of his face before bending down, covering her hands with soap, and going to work.

She sees and feels his body react to her as she moves up and down his body, caresses his skin with the utmost care. Once she decides that she's cleaned him sufficiently, she grabs the shampoo. She stands on her tiptoes to work it into his hair, and he moves his head into her touch, a low growl escaping him from deep inside his throat. She feels his erection press into her stomach.

Once she's helped him rinse his hair, he grabs the soap and shampoo, washing her from head to toe, his hands, and occasionally his lips, touching her. He runs his hands over her like she is the most precious thing in the world.

They stand across from each other after he's finished, gazing. The water is still hot, and the steam it's created dances back and forth in the space between them. Rivulets of water flow down his pale skin in thin streams. He reaches out to her, grabs her hips and pulls her towards him. He leans his head down, touching his lips to hers so lightly, mouth open. She deepens the kiss immediately, pressing herself flush against him, rubbing her tongue along his lower lip before allowing it to enter his mouth to find his. He strokes his tongue against hers, bites and nibbles at her upper lip just so. She moans against his mouth, the water still pounding against them.

He rotates them, never breaking their kiss, moving her until her back hits the wall, and he uses his lower body to hold her in place against the tile.

He pulls back, props himself up against the wall by putting his arms on either side of her head.

"I need you," he rasps, his voice like gravel.

"You've _got_ me."

He exhales roughly, before bending back down and devouring her lips with his. He leaves the kiss with a suck and a pop, and she is about to protest before he moves his mouth to the spot just below her ear, making a path with the tip of his tongue across and under her jaw, down her neck, and to her shoulder. She feels a pinch as he uses his teeth again to nip at her skin. He runs his tongue over the spot before speaking into her skin.

"But I _need you_ ," he nearly whimpers, pressing his lower body into her again until she wraps her legs around his waist. "I need to know you're really here with me. I need to feel you. I need to know you're real. I need to know you're here."

She pushes his head back, stares into his eyes as she nods, showing him that she understands, that she needs him too. He nuzzles his cheek against hers, before placing his lips to her ear. She hears his breathing increase in speed, and his low groan as he slips inside of her. She sighs, feels every muscle in her body welcome him to her. Her eyes close, and she leans her head back against the wall, savoring the feeling of him.

It's like she's just come home. But she pauses, correcting the thought that floats through her mind. She _is_ home. _He_ is her home, has been since long before that night on the couch. And as long as she had him, nothing could break her completely. They could survive this, as long as he was beside her. They would get through this immense hurt - this _devastation_ \- as long as they were together.

She grabs his face, brings his forehead to rest against her own. They breathe each other in. The water running down his face plops onto hers. She tilts her head to plant a kiss on his nose as he begins to move his hips against her. Her legs tighten around his waist.

"I'm here."


	2. Chapter 2

After their shower, they come out of the bathroom and she leads him directly to bed, pulling the covers and comforter back so they both can crawl in. They lay down and then turn on their sides so they face each other. She reaches both of her hands out and grabs his, lacing their finger together.

He takes the contact as an opportunity to pull her closer, so he does, yanking gently on her arms and bringing her to him until their faces are inches apart. Only their hands touch, but she's close enough that she feels the heat coming off his body.

While he had trouble looking at her when she brought him into this room, it now seems that he can't take his eyes off of her. They're deep blue in the gray light of the early morning sun filtering into the room, traveling over her face rapidly. It's as if he's forgotten what she looks like. Like he's trying to memorize her again.

"Rick," she breathes, her slight confusion seeping into the tone of her voice.

His gaze freezes, stares just over her head for a moment before flicking down to meet hers. His expression is one she can't quite place, something she's never seen before. His eyes are wide, holding some mix of wonder and fear and love and disbelief.

She is overcome with the urge to again ask him what happened, what Negan did to him when he took him away in the RV, but she knows she can't make him. She has to trust that he'll tell her when he's ready. Her imagination is running wild, and it's driving her insane, but she'll wait for him.

She thinks, staring at him, contemplates what could be running through his head. She wishes she could hear it so she could know exactly what to say to make him feel better, if there was anything she could say. But she's left to wonder.

And then it dawns on her that maybe he's wondering, too. About what happened– how The Saviors kidnapped them. What happened to _her_ , and the rest of his family, while he was gone.

So she decides to tell him, partly to try to ease what might be troubling his mind, partly to fill the empty air between them. She drops her eyes from his face and looks at their clasped hands.

"Daryl left to go…well, we didn't know where he was going, but Rosita said she did. So she came with us."

She wonders if he can tell the way she's deliberately avoiding saying his name. He probably can, she muses. He has to. It's probably making him remember that bat swinging again and again and again.

She stops herself, closing his eyes and biting down hard on her lip, focusing on the pain instead of on her thoughts. She risks a quick glance up at him. He's staring over her head again.

"Daryl wanted to go after one of them – the one who killed Denise. Dwight."

"Dwight?" he wonders softly, his voice crackling. He clears his throat.

"Yeah. The one with the burn marks on his face, I think."

She glances up to see Rick nod after a moment.

"We tried to stop him," she continues. "We told him to come home, that we'd do it together. But he wouldn't listen. And then Rosita decided she wanted to go with him. We tried to stop them. We tried, but they…"

She trails off as she feels pressure behind her eyes begin to build again, and drops her voice, trying to rush through the rest of her story.

"The two of them wouldn't stop, so we started back. But then they found us, and we were so outnumbered. So they tied us up, and then Daryl and Rosita tried to rescue us, but Dwight shot Daryl in the shoulder and tied them up too. And a few hours later they _untied_ us, but threw us in the back of that truck. We sat there in the dark and then next thing we knew, they were pulling us out and you all were there."

She pauses, to see if he'll say anything. He doesn't, so she goes on.

"And then, when he took you – when Negan took you – _nothing_ really happened. They just kept us there on our knees. Said not to move, not to say anything to each other. No one talked to us except to tell us the rules. I wanted…I wanted to go check on Carl so badly, and then Maggie. It was obvious how much pain she was in, physically. But I was nervous that if I got up, they would hurt one of us. Or all three of us. So I didn't move. And then he brought you back…"

She trails off, waiting for him to react. With each passing moment of silence, her heartbeat grows heavier in her chest.

She glances up at his face again. He hasn't moved, eyes still staring over the top of her head at nothing. She wants to know what he's thinking. She _needs_ to, is afraid to keep herself waiting for too much longer.

She needs to know if his mind is going somewhere it shouldn't, if she has to pull it back in.

"Rick," she says gently.

"And that's all?" he asks immediately, as if her utterance of his name thawed him from some suspended state.

"Yes," she confirms.

"They didn't hurt you?"

"No."

"They didn't – "

His voice breaks off suddenly, tears choking him up again. He blinks long and hard before continuing.

"They didn't…didn't touch you, or anything?"

He rushes through the last part of his question, almost as if it pains him to say it. She squeezes his hands with hers where they still lay clutched, frowning as she thinks of all the possibilities he may be fearing.

"No, baby," she assures him.

He nods, letting out a breath she didn't know he was holding. Slowly, he lowers his gaze to her, the tears she heard in his voice shining in his eyes. She hates them. She wants to dry them, to curse them, to banish them and the pain from ever embracing him.

He pulls one of his hands from her grasp and brings it up to stroke her hair. She closes her eyes, reveling in his touch, at the fact that he is even touching her, when mere hours ago she feared she'd never feel it again.

Suddenly, his hand stops its path, and he picks up one of her locs between his fingers.

"What about your hair?"

Her eyes snap open, and she brings her hand up over his, taking the sheared-off piece of hair from him, and then feeling around until she finds the other one.

"Oh. They…they cut off some of my hair. They didn't hurt me or anything, they just cut it off. And then they took my vest, and Daryl's. They didn't tell us why. I guess it was some weird show of power, in a way? To show they had complete control over us. That they owned us. To be honest, after everything, I kind of forgot it even happened."

He stares at her for a moment before rolling over suddenly and hopping off the bed, fumbling around with their clothes on the floor.

"What are you doing?" she asks in confusion.

He ignores her and keeps rooting through the clothing before standing up, his jeans in hand. He pulls something out of the pocket, but she can't tell what it is in the dim light.

He crawls back into bed, still staring at whatever is in his hand.

"I knew something was wrong. When I came back from looking for Carol and you weren't home, I knew something was wrong."

"Looking for Carol?"

He shakes his head.

"Don't worry about it. It doesn't matter right now. And Morgan said he would keep looking until he found her."

She peers at him curiously, but he just shakes his head again.

"I knew something was wrong," he repeats. "I could just…feel it. I don't know. This is going to sound cheesy, and dumb, probably. But it's like I can _feel_ you, even when we're not together. Like a sixth sense sort of thing."

He chuckles self-consciously.

"I told you, it's dumb. It's even more dumb when I say it out loud."

She brings one of her hands to his cheek.

"It's not dumb," she whispers. "I know what you mean. I feel it, too."

He glances up at her briefly, before turning his head slightly to press a kiss to her palm.

"Well, yeah. I felt that. I knew that something just wasn't quite right. Hell, I would've gone out to look for you soon anyways. I would've been out there even if nothing had happened to Maggie.

"But something did happen to Maggie," he sighs. "So we had to get her here. We had to get her to Hilltop, to help her and the baby. So we all piled in the RV and went. But…"

He hesitates, clenching his fist around whatever he was holding.

"But?" she prompts.

"They kept blocking us. Every way we went, they blocked the road, so we would have to try and find a new way. But every time we would, they would block that, too. They herded us. And eventually we gave up driving and tried to go on foot. And, well, you know how that turned out."

"They blocked all those roads? _How_?" she asks incredulously.

"There are a lot of them, Mich," he answers. " _A lot_ of them."

She pauses a moment to let that sink in, before nodding at him to continue.

"At one point, they had this…line of walkers across the road. They were all chained together, and we had to cut them down to get by. So we got out to do it, and…"

He trails off, looking down and finally opening his hand. She quietly gasps when she sees what he's holding.

"Where did you-"

"It was on one of the walkers," he mumbles, twirling the pieces of her cut-off hair between his fingers. "They put your vest on it too. And some of Daryl's arrows were in another."

"Rick.."

"You were dead," he says bluntly, before sucking in a deep breath and closing his eyes. "I knew they had you, and that they had put their hands on you, and all I could think of was what I would do if I never saw you again. I just held your hair and thought about you and what they could've done to you. I could barely breathe. I knew we had to get Maggie to Hilltop, but after that I didn't know what was going to happen. What I would do. I knew I was going to go look for you. And I was never going to stop – not until I found you. Hell, if you were dead, I probably would've died looking for you. And I would've been okay with that."

"Rick, you can't say that."

"Say what? That I'd rather die looking for you than live without you?"

He looks up at her from under his eyelashes, his eyes glistening once again. He shrugs.

"It's true. I can't do this without you. I mean, I would stay alive - for Carl and Judith. But anything past that – beyond just breathing – I'm not sure I'd be able to do."

"We've lost people before," she tells him fervently. "We've lost people we've loved more than anything. We all have. But we always learn how get past it. How to go on."

"Yeah, I've lost people. Sure I have. But I've never lost _you_."

Her breath catches in her throat at his words, at the gravity of their meaning, at the feeling and sincerity in his voice as he speaks them.

"I love you," he says, and the words roll off his tongue so smoothly and naturally it seems he's saying them for the five hundredth time rather than for the first. "I should have told you in the bathroom, when you said it to me, but I was so much in my own head. I love you, and I've loved you for a long time, and it feels right. It feels like it was always supposed to happen, me loving you. You know what I mean?"

"Yes," she whispers, putting a hand on his cheek and scooting herself towards him until their bodies are pressed together. "Yes, I do."

He drapes his arm over her waist.

"And it doesn't feel like it has before. I've never loved anyone the way I love you. And I don't know if that means it's stronger, or better, or that it's just different. But I think of not having you and I feel empty. You said before that you would've died if Negan hadn't brought me back. That there's no one after me. It's the same way for me. I love you. I need _you_ , and only you. And without you, there's nothing.

"When Negan took me," he continues, words pouring out of him now like a waterfall that she's powerless to stop, "he kept telling me to think about what happened. And then he told me to think about everything that could still happen. And I kept imagining all of you back there, kneeling down, and I kept seeing him hit every one of you with that fucking bat. I couldn't get it out of my head. For a while, I thought that's what he was going to do. Drive me around, make me kill a bunch of walkers, and then just go back to the clearing and kill you all in front of me."

"He made you kill a bunch of walkers?" she asks, trying to glean as much information as she can about what happened when he was away from her. He rolls his eyes, shakes his head like it's not important.

"He took me to one of the places where they'd blocked the road off with logs," he tells her. "And they're was a horde of walkers there, just walking around. He threw my ax outside and told me to go get it. And I don't even know exactly what happened, because I was already so out of it from what happened and it was so foggy and I was tired, but I ended up on the roof of the RV with the ax. And I almost just gave up. I laid down, and I was going to lay there until he either got tired and killed me himself or until he gave me to the walkers and let them do it. Like I said, at that point I was convinced he was just going to kill all of you anyways.

"But then I pictured you, and I pictured Carl, and I knew I had to get up. That I had to make it for the two of you, in case I was wrong and he didn't kill you. So I got up, and I took my ax and got back inside the RV. I did it for the two of you. I knew I had to. I knew that even if there was just a slim chance, I had to get back."

She's crying again, silently, listening to him pour out his feelings to her. Feeling so privileged that he trusts her, and that he's chosen her to be the one privy to the secrets of his heart.

"I'll always do that," he promises her, lifting up one of his hands and using his fingers to wipe at the wetness on her cheeks. "As long as there's a chance, I'll fight for you, and for Carl and Judith. I'll do whatever it takes to get back to you. To protect you."

"I love you," he says again, before bringing her face to his and kissing her. His lips are gentle, but move earnestly, purposefully, like he's trying to reinforce everything he just said and explain everything he can't with his kiss. They pull apart only when they must, when they need air, their chests heaving.

"I love you too," she tells him breathlessly.

He wraps himself around her, throwing one of his legs over hers, winding his arms around her torso, and burying his face into her shoulder. She feels his lips press soft kisses against her neck over and over again.

They hold each other, and she runs her fingers through his hair as his breathing begins to slow. His lips still against her skin. She knows he's sleeping, and she squeezes him tighter, trying to will away any bad dreams that may come to him. She changes the speed of her breathing, slows it until it falls in sync with his.

The sun becomes higher and brighter in the sky as they lie there, casting a soft glow over the room. She extends her arm from under him, towards a patch of light that's settled on the white sheets of the bed. She can just reach the spot, and she smiles slightly as the sunshine warms the tips of her fingers.

"I love you," she whispers once again. She kisses the top of his head, and her eyes drift closed.


	3. Chapter 3

He hears her come in late at night, after he's already put Judith to bed and after Carl has retired to his room for the night with his comic books. He'd been staying up with Rick to wait for her the past few days, but every night she came home later and later and tonight Carl had sat with him downstairs for ten minutes before rolling his eye and getting up, throwing his dad a quick goodnight, mumbling "This is stupid," under his breath as he traipsed up the stairs.

He'd kept sitting there in the living room, his hands folded in his lap, staring off into space, glancing up at the clock to see how much time had passed. When it hit midnight, he got up and dragged himself to their room, changed and got ready to go to sleep, before sitting down in the middle of the bed and beginning to wait again, the door to the room open, the light he left lit for her in the kitchen casting a soft, faint glow up the stairs and into the bedroom.

He leans over and grabs his watch when he hears the door open, squints and sees the time is 1:30. He sighs, laying back on the bed and running a hand over his face. He wonders how long she'll stay with him tonight. That first night at Hilltop they'd slept wrapped around each other. But their contact, and the time they spent together in bed, had lessened and lessened with each passing night. She sleeps with her back to him now. Last night, she'd laid with him for an hour before slipping out of the room.

He wants to say something, but he doesn't know if it will help. He doesn't want to make it worse. He doesn't want to fight with her. He knows how independent she is, how strong she is, and maybe she just needs to work things out by herself before coming to him.

But hell, what does he know? He's never been good with emotions. It's one of the things that was tearing him and Lori apart before he got shot, before the dead started to walk again.

So he's been waiting, letting it play out on its own. She'll come around soon. Slowly, she'll start touching him again. She'll start sleeping through the night by his side. He just has to wait.

( _How long am I supposed to wait?_ he wonders _._ )

He hears her shuffling around downstairs, and then the light goes out, darkness engulfing the hall and his room. He waits to hear the stairs creak with her steps as she walks to their room.

He doesn't.

He does, however, hear a door open and then close gently. He knows where she's gone immediately, and his stomach drops.

She's in her old room.

His mind starts to race, his heart thumping wildly in his chest. There are a million reasons she could be in there, he tells himself. Maybe she realized that she left something tucked in the back of her drawers. Maybe she left her favorite pair of pajamas folded up in the dresser.

She'll come up in a few minutes. He just has to be patient. He just has to wait.

( _How long am I supposed to wait?_ )

(It seems like everything he has with her is a waiting game these days.)

He stares at the ceiling for what seems like hours. He reaches over to the nightstand and picks up his watch again, flicking on the small lamp that sits next to it. He squints.

 _2:40_

He nearly throws the watch down and switches off the light, something close to a growl rumbling in his chest as he throws his head back against the mattress. He brings his hands to his face again and claws at his skin.

It's been an hour since she's come home, and she's made no attempt to come see him.

"Fuck," he grunts in frustration.

He doesn't know what to do. He doesn't want to smother her. That's the last thing he wants to do. But he also refuses to let her drift away from him completely.

He decides he's done waiting.

He jumps off of the bed without thinking, goes over to the dresser and rummages around in the dark for a t-shirt. When he finds one, he turns and leaves the room before he even finishes putting on the clothing, wanting to get to her before he can change his mind. He jogs down the stairs and into the hallway, stopping in front of the door to her old room.

He takes a deep breath to steel himself, and then lifts a fist and knocks on the door.

He listens for her permission to enter. He's met with silence. He brings his hand up to knock again, but suddenly he hears her soft voice filter through the air and murmur in his ear.

"Come in."

His inhales slowly once more before placing his hand on the cool metal of the doorknob and turning.

His heart jumps when he sees her, sitting there on the bed, her back against the headboard and her legs stretched out in front of her. He stands in the doorway and watches her. She's wearing a pair of tiny shorts and an oversized t-shirt – one of his, probably. He tries to take comfort in the fact that she's still wearing his clothes. Her dreads are gathered and tossed over her shoulder, and she's staring down at her hands intently, using her index finger to pick at the skin around her right thumbnail.

"Hey," he murmurs into the silence of the room. He hopes his greeting will prompt her to lift her head and look at him, but it doesn't.

"Hi," she says curtly.

"Didn't see you much today."

He realizes that's not quite accurate. In fact, he hadn't seen her at _all_ today, if you don't count the brief moment he spent glancing in her direction as she snuck from their room in the wee hours of the morning.

"I've been busy."

"Want to talk about it?"

"Not really."

She's been going out on her own a lot, without telling anyone where she's going or when she's coming back. At first, she was going out with the rifle, practicing her aim. But then Negan took all of their guns, and he doesn't know where she's off to now. She keeps saying that she's going on runs, scavenging for stuff to give to Negan when he comes, but she never comes back with anything. He's tried to get her to take someone with her since, according to her, she's just going on runs, but she always refuses, explaining that she can take care of herself, that they should save the companion for someone who can't.

So he relents, watches her leave Alexandria by herself without knowing how to find her. It feels criminal. Every time she goes, a part of himself is walking into danger unprotected. But he doesn't want to smother her. And he tells himself that maybe this is what she needs. Maybe space and solitude is how she mourns, and soon she'll come back.

"You came home pretty late today."

She shrugs.

"Like I said, I've been busy."

"Yeah," he exhales.

She's still picking at her thumb.

"Why're you down here?"

He cuts right to the chase because he's tired and lonely and confused and scared, and he is so sick of waiting.

"Took a shower," she answers, without missing a beat.

"All your stuff is in our bathroom upstairs."

"I left a bar of soap down here and grabbed a towel and washcloth out of the dryer. I didn't need to do any major scrubbing anyways. Just wanted to rinse off, mainly."

"You still could've come upstairs," he points out, not letting her off the hook. But again, he doesn't faze her.

"I didn't want to wake you."

"You know I wait up for you every night. I can't sleep if I don't know you're home safe."

He can tell his words throw her a bit, and her fingers still. After a moment, she clears her throat.

"Well, I'm home safe now."

He bops his head up and down awkwardly, and leans against the doorframe, shoving his hands into the pockets of his sweatpants.

"You coming, then?"

"Coming where?"

The confusion in her voice sounds completely genuine, and his jaw almost falls open in disbelief.

"To bed. To our room."

"Oh."

She drops her hands into her lap and sighs. His heart is beating like a freight train inside his chest.

"I wasn't going to go to sleep right away," she says slowly, like she's picking every word out deliberately and carefully. "I was going to read a little, maybe."

"Okay," he states flatly. "So are you coming, then?"

Silence engulfs the room. She shifts on the bed. Then.

"Again, I didn't want to wake you."

"That's bullshit and you know it."

He speaks without thought, and the words shock him as they reach his ears. He didn't mean to say that. It's what he was thinking, but he didn't mean to _say_ it.

Her head snaps up, her eyes wide. She finally looks at him.

"Excuse me?"

He exhales roughly, shaking his head, deciding to go with it. It's now or never.

"That's bullshit, Michonne," he repeats, "and you know it."

The incredulity in her eyes melts into anger, and she glares at him.

"Leave me alone, Rick."

He ignores her, continuing to stare at her, daring her to look away. Blood rushes to his cheeks, and his heart still pounds, but in a kind of relief. They're doing this. No more tiptoeing around each other. No more waiting. Until now, their relationship that had been teetering on the edge since that fateful day. Tonight, it would fall one way or the other; she would either come to him or pull away from him completely. His palms begin to sweat.

"What's going on, Michonne?"

"Nothing's going on."

"Why are you lying to me?"

"I'm not _lying_ to you," she spits back at him, sitting up and throwing her legs over the side of the bed, her hands clenched into fists at her sides.

"Oh, okay," he laughs. "Yeah, you coming home so late that you don't see the kids is normal. You going off by yourself without you telling anyone where you're going is normal. You not touching me and barely looking at me is normal. You staying down here by yourself and not coming upstairs and being next to me is so _normal_ , Michonne."

"We've barely been together a month, Rick. You have no idea what's normal for me in romantic relationships."

"Fine," he concedes, even though it breaks his heart. "Maybe I don't know you very well in that way. But you not spending any time with us? You avoiding the kids? You avoiding your _family_? That's not normal, Michonne."

Her left hands grabs a handful of the comforter, squeezes it so tightly he can see her skin stretch over her knuckles from the doorway.

"Maybe that's the Michonne that I met around a year ago. Maybe that's the Michonne who first showed up at the prison. But that's not the Michonne I know now. That's not you. And this isn't normal, Michonne."

"Get out of my room, Rick."

Her words push all the breath out of his body, nearly knock him off his feet. His heart falls to his stomach and his chest tightens.

She doesn't want him there. She wants him to leave.

( _She doesn't want him._ )

The pain moves like pinpricks of electricity throughout his body, but he closes his eyes, swallows, and steadies himself the best he can.

"What's wrong, Michonne?" he asks, his words more sullen than before. "Why are you doing this?"

"I'm doing this because I have to!" she exclaims, standing up abruptly from the bed. "This is my problem, and I'm going to work it out on my own. You have enough shit to deal with and you don't have room to deal with my shit, too. So focus on your thing and I'll focus on mine. This isn't yours – it's mine. And I didn't ask for your help."

"Doesn't matter," he tells her immediately, and he's transported back to a time one year ago, to a vision of a beautiful, mysterious stranger covered in walker guts, sitting on the dirty, cold floor of the prison and staring up at him in anger and distrust. He almost smiles at the memory before continuing.

"This is my problem. Because I love you so much, and anything that hurts you or makes you unhappy hurts me, too. This is my problem. And I can only help you as much as you'll let me, but whatever you let me do to help, I'm going to make damn sure I do it."

She doesn't answer at first. She stares down at the floor, her fists still clenched at her sides.

"You made me promise to not let you get lost. That first night at Hilltop, you promised me that you wouldn't let me get lost, whether I wanted you to or not, because you loved me too much to let me go. And you made me promise not to let you get lost either, and I promised. I told you I never would."

Her hands have gone limp, and her shoulders now slump. He wants to go to her. He wants to hold her and kiss her and rock her back and forth until she falls asleep. But he doesn't know how she would react. If she would even want something like that from him at the moment.

"You're getting lost, Mich," he says gently. "Do you think I don't love you enough to hold up my end of the deal? I do. I love you so much more than that. I'd be here in front of you whether you had me make that promise or not. Because I love you, and I need you, and I'm not letting you go."

When she once again stays silent, he pleads with her again.

"Now, will you come up to our room, Michonne? We're both tired. We can get some sleep, and then keep talking in the morning. Or if you want to, we can keep talking now. It doesn't matter to me. I'll do whatever you want. Just…come up stairs with me, sweetheart. _Please_."

"I can't," she breathes, he voice cracking.

"Yes you can, Mich."

"No, I _can't_."

"Why not?" he asks, on the edge of exasperation.

"They don't get to."

Her voice is so quiet that he almost doesn't hear her, even in the stillness of the night. His brow furrows.

"What are you talking about?"

"They don't get to!" she yells, and they both freeze, turning their heads in the direction of the stairs, listening for signs of stirring children. When they hear none, they bring their gazes back to each other.

Her eyes are glistening with tears, and it makes him pause and shatters his heart all over again. He's not used to seeing her cry – his strong, beautiful warrior who he loves more than life itself.

But it plants a seed of hope deep inside him, that maybe they were getting somewhere, finally.

"They don't get to," she tells him again, her voice lower but still laced with a firm edge. "Sasha doesn't get to. _Maggie_ doesn't get to."

Some of her tears have spilled over. His face softens and he stares at her.

"How can I go upstairs with you?" she continues. "How can I go upstairs and fall asleep in the arms of the man I love, with two children down the hall sleeping soundly, safe and warm? How am I supposed to do that when they can't? When they'll never get to again?"

"You feel guilty," he states simply, casting his eyes downward before looking at her again. Every so often, another tear falls from the corner of her eye.

"It isn't fair," she murmurs, closing her eyes. "That I get to and they don't. How is that fair?"

He can hear her shallow, shaky breaths ring out in the room. He thinks for a moment, ponders how to answer her.

"You're right," he admits, finally. "It isn't fair."

Her eyes snap open at his words, and she stares at him with wide eyes, her jaw hanging open just the slightest bit. He can tell she wasn't expecting him to say that.

"It's isn't fair," he repeats, taking a cautious step into the room. "It's lucky.

"I don't know what we did to deserve it. I don't know what I did to deserve having the three people I love most in the world in this house, safe and alive. Hell, I don't know what I did to deserve any of this. This community. This house. The friends I have outside."

He takes several more long strides towards her until they are only inches apart. He can't resist the urge to touch her anymore, so he brings his hand up to cup her cheek, his thumb rubbing against her smooth skin to dry the wet trail of a tear that has fallen.

"I don't know what I did to have those two kids who are sleeping upstairs. I don't know what I did to deserve you. Honestly, Mich – I _don't_ deserve you. I don't deserve to be able to call the strongest, smartest, bravest, most compassionate, most beautiful woman in the world – the best woman I've ever met – mine. I don't."

"Rick…" she breathes.

"But I do," he continues, before she can try to tell him he's wrong. "I do have Carl and Judith. I have you. I'm lucky. All four of us are lucky, to have each other. And I'm not going to punish myself for living. I've tried that. It doesn't work. And you have, too. With what happened after Andre.

"I'm always going to hurt for Sasha and Maggie. I'm always going to hurt for Abraham, and _Glenn_. I'm always going to hurt for what we lost that night. I mean, sometimes I remember and it hurts so much it feels like I can't breathe."

He feels her lean into his palm just the tiniest bit.

"But I can't let that take you and Carl and Judith away from me. I can't let it take away the happiness I have left. I won't live if I do. I can't."

He shrugs his shoulders, glancing down at his feet.

"Maybe that makes me selfish. But I don't know any other way to get through this."

He looks back up at her, and there are tears in her eyes. She's biting her lip, and he can tell she's trying to hold back her crying.

The corner of lips turns up just slightly before he drops his hand from her face, trails his touch down her side until he finds her hand. He grabs it, intertwines their fingers, and holds it tightly.

"You're so strong, Mich," he whispers. "And I love that about you. I admire it so much. Your strength helps me get through so many things. It helps the kids. It helps _everyone_."

She closes her eyes.

"But you don't have to be strong all the time," he tells her. "Here, in this house. With _me_. You don't have to. I'm here for you just as much as you're here for me. You don't have to pretend. I love you. And I want all of you."

Her face crumples, and she lets out an unsteady breath, her shoulders slumping forward. He moves and places both of his hands on her hips.

"You're allowed to cry. You're allowed to hurt."

As his last words leave his mouth, a loud sob wracks her body, and she falls into him at the same time he pulls her towards him. She burrows herself into his chest and wraps her arms around him like he is a life preserver and she is in the middle of the ocean, on the verge of drowning. She finally lets herself go and lets herself cry, and he wraps one of his arms around her waist while he snakes the other one up her back and into her hair, cradling her head against him. He presses his lips against the top of her head again and again, whispering any sweet thing he can think of that might soothe her.

"I shouldn't have been out there that day," she chokes out between her cries. "I shouldn't have taken him out there."

She's blaming herself, and she shouldn't; Negan was the only one to blame for anything that happened. But he knows that right now isn't the time for logic, or reasoning. It's a time to listen to her, and comfort her - to let her ache and let her mourn, in order to purge the bad feelings from herself. To let her expel everything she's been holding back.

"I hate him, Rick," she seethes, her tears soaking through his thin t-shirt. "We can't let him get away this. We have to kill him. We can't let him –"

Another sob cuts her sentence short.

"I know, baby," he coos. "We're not going to. He's not getting away with this, I promise."

"They've lost everyone," she weeps. "Sasha and Maggie. Rosita, too. What are they going to do?"

"We're going to help them. They still have us. And that's never going to change."

Her tears slow slightly, and he hears her inhale deeply. Suddenly, he hears her breathy laugh.

"I'm going to miss Abraham's stupid one-liners," she sniffles.

He chuckles slightly at that.

"Yeah. He certainly had…a way with words."

She hums, moving her head on his chest, placing a kiss over his heart. Then she stills, pauses.

Finally, she says, "I can't believe he told Negan to suck his nuts."

Rick lets out one laugh, before moving his hand from her hair to her back, rubbing slow circles over the material of her t-shirt.

"I think I kind of can. In fact, that's one of the most Abraham things I've ever heard of."

"True," she admits with a sigh. "Is it weird that I'm kind of…proud of him for saying that?"

He pulls back from her only slightly. She tilts he chin up to look at him.

"Maybe," he tells her with a smirk. "But I'm proud of him, too. And wherever Abraham is right now, I think he's proud that we're proud of him."

She nods slightly, her eyes glancing around the room before coming back to meet his. After a moment, her bottom lip begins to quiver.

"Glenn's never going to get to meet his baby," she murmurs, her eyes beginning to shine again.

He nods once, lifts his eyes towards ceiling, blinking back his own tears now.

"Yeah. Yeah, I know."

"And his baby's not going to know him. They'll never know what a perfect person they had as a father."

"Yes they will," he says firmly, bringing his gaze back down, a few tears making their way down his nose. "We're going to tell them all about him. Everything. Any little thing we remember, we're going to tell them. We're going to make sure they know him."

She smiles sadly, and then tightens herself around him. He lays his cheek on top of her head, inhaling her, enjoying the feel of her.

"Should we go upstairs?" she mumbles into him after a moment.

He pulls back again to see her, a smile on his face. She stares up at him, her eyes shy.

"Yeah," he breathes, lifting his hand and running his fingers down the side of her face. "Let's go upstairs."

She goes to move from him, but before she can, he bends down and scoops her up into his arms. She lets out a surprised squeal.

"What are you doing?" she asks, and he can hear her laugh in her voice. It warms him from head to toe.

"Carrying you," he explains, as he walks from the room, flicking off the sole light-switch in the on the wall with his elbow as he walked into the hall.

"You don't have to do that."

"I know. But let me do this. Let me take care of you. I feel like you're the one who's always taking care of me. I have to return the favor sometimes."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. Plus, we're already at the stairs," he points out. "It'd be pretty silly to put you down after we came all this way."

She smiles softly, and lays her head on his shoulder.

"I guess it would be."

He takes her up the rest of the stairs, down the hall, and into their room, pushing the door closed behind them with his foot. For the first time since that day – since he laid in bed with her that morning – he feels something similar to peace wash over him. Things weren't alright yet, and they had a long way to go. They had a lengthy, difficult fight ahead of them. He didn't even know if they could win.

But for the first time, he saw something that looked like light peek through the ever-present darkness that engulfed their lives.

He's about to lay her down on the bed when she grabs his face, turns his head towards her. Her deep brown eyes bore into his.

"What you said down there, about taking care of me - you know that's not true, right? You take care of me all the time. Everyday. You might not realize you're doing it, but you are."

He stares at her, the corners of his lips curling up, before setting her down carefully on the bed.

She's already pulled back the comforter by the time he reaches his side of the bed, and he settles down next to her under the blankets. She tugs on his arm, pulls him near her until he's on his side, hovering over her slightly. She lifts her head, presses her lips to his, lets he tongue slide once over his bottom lip before pulling away. She reaches up to cradle his face in her hands, running her thumbs along his cheekbones.

"I love you," she declares.

He smiles on reflex, as he does whenever he hears her say that. He still has trouble believing it – the fact that the best person he knows chose him. She wants him. She _loves_ him.

"I love you, too."

She grins as he leans down to press his lips against her forehead and nose before covering her mouth with his in a tender but firm kiss. After they part, she rolls onto her side and he cuddles up behind her, wrapping his arm around her waist. He kisses her cheek before burying his face in the crook of her neck.

They lay there for minutes, simply listening to each other breathe.

"Rick?"

The sound of his name stirs him from his semi-asleep state.

"Yeah?"

"We're going to make it, aren't we?"

She sounds uncertain, which matches the way he feels. He doesn't answer her right away, and she cranes her neck and rolls back over slightly to look at him. Her face is just barely illuminated by the light of the full moon shining into the room through the window; she looks absolutely beautiful. She always does, but what Negan did to them changed everything. He almost feels like he's living on borrowed time, and at any moment everything could be ripped from him. So he takes his time to appreciate every good and beautiful thing in his life, to cherish it, to make sure his memories would last forever.

He stares down, studies and commits every detail of her face to memory. While he does, he mulls over her question.

He doesn't know, honestly. He doesn't know how they'll get through this, and even if they do, who they would lose in the process. It hurt to think about. He doesn't _want_ to think about it. He wants to pretend it isn't real.

But he refuses to lie to her.

"We're going to try," he tells her, tightening his arm around her waist. "No matter what happens, we're going to be together. And we're going to try."

She nods slightly, running her fingers through his curls and then leaning up to give him one last kiss before turning back over and settling onto the pillows. He returns to his position as well, curled up behind her. He breathes in and closes his eyes, losing himself in her sweet scent.

They were going to try. He didn't know how it would turn out in the end, but damn it, together they were going to try.

And for now, that is enough.


End file.
